With a pinch of salt
My desire to write severely diminishes whilst in the weeklong throes of regurgitating a 5000 word paper, wherein I become severely disaffected with the written word. Forcing words to fit my thoughts - or thoughts to fit words? - is hellish. My argument is at its most lucid traversing my neural pathways, succinct and pure like well-brewed coffee. Language is dilution, and complication.
And dissatisfaction. Oh, the dissatisfaction.
Consequently the primary thrust of my hypothesis involves a dicey metaphor likening the ideological and practical relationship between Sixties counterculture and the New Left to an Egg.
I have my reasons, and they are egg-cellent.
Four thousand words from completion, and I am still going to the social tonight. I sense an imminent all-nighter.